The Confessions of Severus Snape
by JuicyJuice
Summary: Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts, and yet somehow life goes on for S. Snape. He turns to his diary in despair. We turn to his diary and laugh. A lot.
1. He's Here

September 1st, 11.30 PM

The beginning of the year is. . .er. . .beginning. Miserable feast, miserable castle, miserable day, as always.

Miserable dungeon as well. I have three leaks already, and they never fail to drip right on my head. Right on my part, too. They have aim, if I'm not much mistaken.

Oh yes, and Potter is here. He's _here_. I knew it was coming, I just didn't realize it was coming. When I first got a look at him I had twelve minor heart attacks, one stroke, and a total loss of control of my face (eyes popping out (probably on springs), nostrils flaring, and mouth hanging open). I hope no one noticed. I have an image to keep up, after all.

The entire student body and most of the staff had a dithering fest as Potter walked up to the Hat. I gave him my Tears-Inducing Glare with a touch of menacingly raised eyebrow. One of my better ones, I if I do say so myself. The Piss-In-Trousers-Inducing Glare would have left a nasty smell to eat my dinner by. It didn't matter, though, because he didn't notice, blockheaded as he undoubtedly is. I hate it when people don't notice my glares. It makes me wonder if life is worth living, which is not a good thought when you are about to start the school year and life is inevitably _not_ worth living by any standards.

Anyhow, Potter became a Gryffindor. Typical. Just like his father. And mother. And whole damned extended family. He probably has the wit, charm, and amiability of his father as well (i.e.-none at all). Oh this is infuriating!

I must make a list.

_Reasons Why Potter Will Be Diagnosed With One Or Two Mental Diseases By The Age Of Twenty:_

1) He was sorted into Gryffindor (maybe Slytherin has all the evil power-sucking murderers, but Gryffindor yields 78% of the Hogwarts loonies, studies state).

2) I was talking with someone. It must have been Quirrel because I remember feeling particularly sour. Anyway, my mind was gallivanting through the Doors of Boredom, so I looked down at the students and I caught eyes with Harry, after which he promptly smacked himself on his stupidly scarred forehead. That can't be normal behavior, even for a Potter.

Gah! I can't think of any more! No matter, they will come. I must breathe.

Oh yes, I asked Dumbledore again yesterday why he felt I was not appropriate for the Defense Against the Dark Arts job in his eyes, when he clearly feels that a quivering mass of turbaned nothingness is. Actually, I didn't really ask him. I took all of his fuzzy socks hostage (harder than you would think; he had them in a sealed chamber guarded by a troll) and threatened to feed them all to the Giant Squid if he didn't fire Quirrel immediately.

He smiled, probably because he knew nothing alive would ever consent to eat his socks, and called me gay. Actually he said something like, "Severus you should find yourself a nice boy to settle down with and give up these fruitless obsessions. You may do whatever you like with my socks." Then he gave me an eye-twinkling smile, put me in a full body bind and threw me (quite literally) out of his office. He's got hefty arms for an old worm in a pointy hat.

Cocky old man. I hope his eyes twinkle out of his sockets. I spent the rest of the evening burning most of his socks in my fire. It left an awful smell that is still lingering like two lingering lingerers in lingerie. Horrid. Eventually I realized that I should stop, so I took the remaining socks and hid them on the forbidden third floor. Dumbledore will never look there, since he knows that "Fluffy" is after his blood since he stole its tambourine. Ha. I am almost smiling. . .but not quite, mind you.

A/N—I wrote this a while ago and never posted it. I hope you like it! There's more coming soon. Please review!


	2. First Lessons and Ferreting

September 4th, 3.10 PM

I had the First Year Gryffindors today. I gave a stunning speech, if I do say so myself. I have copied it down so I can use it again next year. I need to practice my delivery. More pauses and perhaps a baring of teeth. . .Of course the speech itself was at first-rate crap. Who do you know that can brew glory?

Although I do sometimes feel quite glorious while brewing potions. If I set the proper dark atmosphere with a proportionate amount of billowing steam and explosions, one is reminded of the wizards of old who intoxicated themselves and danced around naked bellowing complex (half-nonsense) incantations in rioting thunderstorms. It is quite inspiring. The last time I did it, however (felt glorious while brewing a potion, of course, not frolicking about in lightening storms), I was inspired to strike a menacing pose upon which McGonagall burst in with some small complaint or another (for regarding herself as Cat Woman, she has a lot of minor, old-lady health problems). Well, when she saw me, she pissed herself laughing at my imposing stature (another lovely smell to pervade my dungeon). She remained on the floor in convulsions for approximately 25 minutes. I tried to convince myself that she was so impressed by my pose and grace that it was unbearable to the old hag, but when she began to sob in laughter so that there were small puddles on my floor, I had to admit the truth. I was obliged to throw her outside into the hall in a blubbering heap. It's really ridiculous how little privacy one gets around here, even when the students aren't around.

Now she's taken to barging in on me at the most unexpected moments, like it's some sort of game. Now I always dress and undress crouched behind my bed, just in case. She gave me quite a turn just the other day when I was ferreting around on the floor (pretending to be a ferret, obviously—it's an excellent stress reliever) and she stormed in like a wild boar on steroids. I had to say I was searching for my eyeglasses.

"You don't have eyeglasses," she said like the insolent, disagreeable thing she is.

I replied, with the greatest dignity for someone in ferret-pose on the floor, "For a lady of your stature, Minerva, you should comprehend the secret lives of secretive, er. . .secrets. But now I will divulge to you and only you a great mystery of the mind which is: I have eyeglasses!. . .and they_ are_ somewhere. They cannot be with us right now as they are on a secret mission of their own."

I thought I had handled the whole thing prodigiously well, but her look told me that she knew I had no clue what I was talking about, probably because I didn't have any clue what I was talking about.

She then said, "Severus, neither you, nor I, nor anyone else has any _clue_ what you are talking about."

"Ha!" I said, still in ferret-pose, "That's just because no one else can hear us!"

She rolled her eyes and swished out of the room. How dare she swish out my room when no one invited her in the first place?

Miserable old earthworm.

But I've lost myself. I was talking about those ridiculous little First Years. . .

I also told them that I could teach them to "stopper death." Heh. And they swallowed every word of it. I just hope none of them are smart enough to ask me how in their seventh year, because I will undoubtedly gape at them and look thoroughly stupid. Hah! Stopper death. . .If stoppering death were possible, the Dark Lord would be alive and hopping. . .and probably salsa dancing, too. The closest I've come to stoppering death is the anti-depression potion. After all, depression is the leading cause of suicides. . .yeah, that was sadly obvious, wasn't it?

Anyway, then I took a point away from Potter. I forget why. I should have taken more, but it was funny to see him look mortified, thinking that one point was a real tragedy and that I was being an evil bastard. Then a complete ninny, Neville Longbottom (son of Alice and Frank, bless their souls, but without the talent) managed to explode the simplest potion in Wizarding History, so I, naturally, took another point from Potter.


	3. The Painters Are In

A/N—I'm going to start out with this, just for clarification: If you didn't already know, when a girl "has the painters in," she I having her period (yes, this is relevant and it will come up). And also, "Werewolves of London" is a real song by Warren Zevon, and I don't own it. Enjoy!

Tuesday September 8th, 8.23 PM

This is the most shameful day of my life. I have barricaded myself into a broom cupboard and will never leave until I am legally and spiritually dead. I will become a broom cupboard hermit crab. I will be a legend at Hogwarts. In fifty years, the First Years will skitter past this door nervously, knowing that something inside it is alive. The Seventh Years will dare each other to open the door or peek through the keyhole, but none of them, not even the dumbest Gryffindor, will have the nerve. Filch will suffer a sudden death when he realizes that he will never see some of his smelly brooms and mops again. . .And I, I will wither inside this sad, dank, dark, misty, uncomfortable place, until I forget the horrors of today.

Or maybe I am being dramatic.

See, here's what happened: I was working on next week's lesson plan for my sixth year Hufflepuffs, and deciding whether to make them drink their own potion or their neighbor's, when a truly useless Third Year Ravenclaw approached my desk.

"Yes?" I said sharply. I always try to be as sharp as possible. It is very soothing.

"May I go to the bathroom, Professor?" she asked. She looked nervous. I knew she was up to something. They are always up to something.

"No," I said, "You can wait until the end of class."

"Please, Professor!" she said, and then she leaned in really close and whispered desperately, "The painters are in."

Well, I looked handsomely boggled for a moment, and then realized what she meant.

"Well, class," I said, "Miss Price here has just asked me an interesting question. She asked if she could leave class because the painters are in." At this point everyone looked sort of shocked, though I didn't know why. I turned to Price, "I don't know why there are any painters at Hogwarts, Miss Price, but I suppose you could tell the class what you are going to do with these painters? Snog them, I suppose?"

Some of the class began to laugh, at my wit, I guessed. Price looked mortified, as one could imagine, but then she took me by surprise by running out of the room sobbing, like she had nothing better to do or something. The class, especially those intolerable Weasley twins, continued to laugh as if they had never heard anything so funny, while I marked Miss Price down for cutting class. I kept an amused half-smile on my face, not wanting to make them think I was turning into a nice, witty sort of guy. I am not a nice, witty sort of guy. Once I remembered that, I yelled:

"That's enough! It was not _that_ funny!"

Somehow, that only made them laugh harder, which was when I began to get suspicions. However, I did not completely understand my mistake until McGonagall barged in on me an hour later.

As I have said before, she is always barging in on me, so this was nothing special, though it was slightly embarrassing as I was singing along to some American bloke's song called "Werewolves of London" that I was getting on WWN (Wizarding Wireless Network). By the time she entered, I was very into it and was on a particularly nice "Awooooooo!" with my head thrown back and arms spread out. I may have been dancing as well (possibly Irish), but I prefer not to think about it.

She, being her insufferable self, had to take a few minutes to get over that (by laughing unprofessionally hard and occasionally banging her head against the wall) before she got to her point.

"Severus," she said, as if we were on first name terms, "I am here to teach you the facts of life."

It went downhill from there.

Apparently that nitwit, Fanny Price, had gone running to McGonagall when she left my class. Why couldn't she have gone to her own head of house?. . .though now that I think of it, Flitwick is not who I would chose to confess my girly problems to either. . .

But how was I supposed to understand female slang? How should I know that when "the painters are in" they are not actually painting portraits or walls, but flowing out someone's nether regions? Urgh. No one will ever hear me use those terms ever again.

Before McGonagall could educate me on the finer points of reproduction, I stunned her, put her in a full body bind and tried to carry her to her office. Unfortunately, her apparent frailness has no correlation with her weight. I would say that 300 kilos is not a bad estimate. As I passed through the halls, many students stared at me like they had nothing better to do except stand still all day staring at innocent professors carrying around their colleagues. And not one of them offered to help me either.

"What?" I shouted (rather feebly because I was panting so hard), "There is nothing to see here! Go on with your lives! Move along!"

They continued to stare, however (they never were the brightest of things), so I forced the old hag onto two of them and panted back to the dungeons. Only then did I realize that I forgot to modify the mad woman's memory.

I sat in my office the rest of the day feeling sorry for myself and then went into to dinner late, hoping that most everyone might have left by then (I knew that half the school would know what had happened by dinnertime). Sadly, however, when I entered, nearly everyone was there, and _more_ than half the students and all of the staff turned to stare at me. Most of them were smiling. Dumbledore was twinkling his eyes. I turned around abruptly when some of the students began to giggle and pretended I had lost something.

"Oh no," I said, "I have lost my. . ." for some reason avocado was the only word that could come to mind. I thought very quickly and finished, "orange! Oh dear. I must find it."

I don't pretend to have good acting skills, but I must say that I think I handled that very nicely, considering. So then I left, looking for my orange, obviously, and then barricaded myself in here, never to come out again.

Oddly, something seems to be knocking on the cupboard door at this very moment.

"Professor Snape-y!" someone's saying, in a horribly sweet, singsong voice "It's time to come out now! I have some cheese for you!"

Good grief.


	4. ShoeShopping Snape

Wednesday September 9th, 8.23 PM

Yes, well. I am out of the closet (and I mean that in a very literal, non-homosexual way). I would prefer not to describe what led up to my exit. It is very painful for me to recall. Let me just say that it involved the three most loony people in the universe, a cat, a lobster, and the ghost of Oscar Wilde camping outside the cupboard door and alternating between karaoke and sharing ludicrously detailed past-relationship stories. Nothing could have induced me to run away so fast as Filch's singing voice or Dumbledore and Trelawney bonding over their last love affairs (not with each other, of course. . .I shouldn't have even brought that up. I have developed a twitch.), both of which occurred over thirty years ago. And now I am shuddering. Nothing is so bad for the nerves as this school, I can tell you. I need a 20-hour sleep and a new life. Perhaps one with a garden and pet peacocks.

Friday September 11th, 4.56 PM

Shoe shopping day has come again. I was hoping to avoid it for a few more decades, but Dumbledore has made a comment about my old ones that I cannot bear.

He said that they are just his style. And he is right, which, as you can imagine, makes me want to die.

You see, it's a very hard job finding shoes to fit my image. I can still remember the look on McGonagall's face when she saw me sweeping down the hall in bright white trainers. I thought that the person she had been talking to (Dumbledore) had just made a very good joke, and you can imagine what pleasure she took in correcting me.

"_What_ is so funny?" I snapped, never one to miss a good joke.

"Your—feet," she wheezed, before falling over and knocking over a suit of armor, which then began to chase her in circles. Still, much as that amused me, the insult to my footwear would not be erased.

You know, now I realize, in retrospect that it was impossible for Dumbledore to have made a good joke. The funniest thing he has ever done was unintentional. It was about five years ago, when he tripped and slid down to my dungeon door, shouting all kinds of amusing profanities (the floor slants downwards). He also did the classic: he tried to get up again, but his feet came right out from under him and he fell back on his rear. I have never laughed so hard. And never will again.

But anyhow, my next pair of shoes I believe were those sort of sensible sandals with the Velcro strap round the back that let me feel the wind through my toes. Those, however, got a similar reaction from the sanity-challenged members of our staff (Sprout and McGonagall, who are never particularly friends until it comes to laughing at me. It is truly demoralizing to be laughed at by two old hags, one of which whose name matched her profession, which is so naff that it borders on criminal.) So the sandals as well were retired to the Closet of No Return, which also holds old eighties outfits and the purple wig that I used to be so fond of.

Then, for nearly six months last year I was able to get along barefoot, making sure only to wear my extra-long robes. It was very painful (walking to Hogsmeade—in the snow. That would not agree with anyone.).

But then there was the Noodle Incident, which is another fiasco that I will never disclose to even this most secretive book. I will take it with me to the grave. In any case, me and Dumbledore/McGonagall (because sometimes they sound so similarly irritating that they may as well just be the same person) had a row, so I stormed out of Dumbie's office in a very billowy-imposing way, sporting the pissed-off look to end all pissed-off looks. Unfortunately, the billowing got a little out of hand, exposing my bare (but perfectly pedicured) feet. Dumbledore yelled something completely ridiculous and off-topic about a dress code, and McGonagall just gasped. Many times. I thought she might have been dying, so I whipped around expectantly, but I was mistaken. She was merely expressing shock. _How dare she express shock in so ambiguous a manner?_

Well, as you can imagine, this only made me angrier, so I kicked the wall (breaking two toes, as I later found out), and limped off to the Hospital Wing, which sort of ruined the dramatic affect.

Still, I was not inclined to put on shoes until two week later when I overheard Minerva and Sabra (Sinistra) speaking:

"They were just so sexy," said Minerva, which in itself made me trip over myself and fall to the ground with a severe stomachache.

"His feet?" asked Sabra. I gagged. Quietly.

"Yes—oh, I can't explain it. It's very silly of me, but I've never seen better feet."

Sinistra paused, probably to throw up, as I was ready to do.

"Sorry, but Severus Snape? Sexy feet?" She paused again, while I went into spasms, "I guess I'll just have to see them for myself."

I ran.

And ran.

And ran, but of course in a non-feet-exposing way, which I imagine made me look like a skittish duck, which is why I never imagine for long.

Ever since then I have covered every inch of foot with a high-heeled, balck, silver-buckled boot. And unfortunately so does Dumbledore. So now I am off to that God forsaken, eyesore of a store. Hopefully it will not take my life.

A/N—Review if you like, review if you don't like!

Sorry it took me so long to come out with this. I have less and less free time, but I am determined to stick with this piece, as I am very fond of it. British People: If ever you have a helpful hint on how to britishize my dearest Snape, I would be so obliged. I know a ton of Brits, but I'm not one myself, so I can always tell how Americanized I sound. Ludicrous as it is, I'd like this to be as realistic as possible.

Thanks to all my past and future reviewers! You are the only people worth writing for!


	5. Tempers and Turbans

September 12, Friday 3.18 PM

I will never speak to anyone ever again. Especially not certain _people_ who make up rules and then let other certain _people_ break them, just so that other certain _people_ (who the first certain _person_ happens to be in love with) can get on the Quidditch team, even if it is against all the regulations in the world. But no, we all bow down to certain Gryffindor idiot Potters because no one seems to think straight except for those who live in dungeons.

I could scream. Actually, I did scream. The second I heard, I flew into Dumbledore's office with the speed of a drunken missionary, spluttering and squawking in the way that only Dumbledore would understand.

"Severus," he said, acting like he was a good, old mate (he is not), "I understand that you are upset about Harry."

You see, Dumbledore likes to pretend that he can read minds. I bet he just keeps a list of all the things that he knows make me want to kill him, so that whenever I swoop down upon him, he can take it out, choose the most likely item, and then think that I think that he is reading my mind, which makes him feel really intelligent. He is not.

"But you must understand," he continued, "that Minerva was desperate. I am quite sure that I'd bend the rules in the same way for you."

I just gaped attractively for a moment and then gave my Die-You-Fiend Glare (with a slight baring of teeth), before storming out of the room. I refuse to converse with people who talk out of their arses. Then I decided that I could not let him off so easily, so back I ran to tell him how I felt. But again, I just couldn't stand his voice. It kept talking. And it was talking total crap, too. So out I went again within moments.

This back-and-forth continued for a full ten minutes, until I collapsed against the wall across from those dumb gargoyles that guard his office. I never was a good endurance runner. Then that's when I realized that even though I was no longer in his office, he was still talking to me. I was not going to stand for it.

"SHUT UP!" I yelled. A pair of seventh years were walking by, and that perked them up, I can tell you. One of them jumped out a nearby window, and the other pitched her books into the air so high that they slammed into the ceiling, and then ran. Unfortunately for her, she tripped over nothing at all and fell right on top of me, which would have been uncomfortable enough even if I was _not_ her professor.

I pretended not to notice (a difficult thing when someone is smack on top of you), and just kept yelling at the old bearded man, "YOU'RE STILL TALKING YOU OLD FART! I CAN'T HEAR YOU! LALALALALAAAAAALA!" The unfortunate Seventh Year Girl was wise enough to flee, "YOU GREAT, GREEN, GIANT, POTTER-LOVING, UNRECOGNIZABLE TALKING-FOOL! EAT YOUR WORDY WORDING WORDS, SEE IF I CARE! YOUR SOCKS SMELL LIKE QUIRREL ANYWAY AND NOBODY LIKES LEMON DROPS! LIMA BEAN!"

You know what, I think I will stop there. You know, something so witty in retrospect can seem like waffle, but I'm sure that in context those insults would not seem so. . .retarded? Yes, I'm sure. Yes. . .Did I really say all that?

From now on I should just ignore myself, and not listen to or comprehend a word that I say. It would make life so much easier.

But in any case, Dumbledore's favoritism has reached an all-time high. If I hadn't already known for a fact that his last lover (urggggggghhhhhhhhhh) was a woman named Norma Jean "El Dicionario" Who, then I would think that there was something between him and McGonagall. Why else would he do her this favor? I would teasethem about it if it didn't give me a distinct nauseous feeling thinking of anyone snogging either of those old bags. In that respect, they go very well together.

Still. Lima bean? It's hard to believe that I, Master of Wit, could have said that. One would think that someone or other could have smote me down with a lightening bolt, as a favor, before I let that leave my mouth.

And this Quidditch thing is not the only thing I have to annoy me right now. "Professor" Quirrel has now taken to stalking me. No, I am not joking. He follows me around like a bobbing piece of nothingness in a turban. EverywhereI go,I see him just a few steps away. It's maddening. And he has been asking me dubious questions. Just today he asked, "So, Severus, what was your l-line of work before H-hogwarts?" This, as everyone knows, is a thoroughly stupid question. Everyone knows what I did. I murdered innocent civilians. So I decided to have a private joke with myself and said:

"Oh, I was the Ministerial Dentist. That's why it made so much sense for me to become a potions teacher. Because, you know, dentistry and potions are very closely linked."

"Really," Quirrel said. He looked exquisitely irritated, and he was doing a very bad job of hiding it. I've never seen him angry before, because he always quivers so much that it makes me twitch to look him right in the face because it moves around so much. He had forgotten his quiver, though, so I could observe very accurately that he is ugly. That fact rather distracted me, so I wasn't quite paying attention when he said, "I had thought, for some reason, that you worked for V-v-v-v-vvv-vvvvvvv-v-v-v-v-vvvvv-vo-vo-vv-v-vo-vo—" He went into some sort of spasm and purple electrical-looking shocks—I swear—began to come from his turban. It looked very painful, but I couldn't be bothered helping him. First of all, I was too busy laughing at him to do anything else and also I didn't feel like finishing the conversation. Discussing the finer points of all my moral failings with Quirrel would have been the end of me.

So that's the way I left him, a heap of turbaned nothingness, writhing from the electrical shocks emitted from his own turban. I wonder if that turban was of his own design, to stop him from ever saying the Dark Lord's name if he ever felt tempted. It is weird though, that he would shock himself. But it's also very convenient, because it saved me the trouble of shocking him myself. Serves him right for following me around like a schoolgirl.


	6. The Fluffy Halloween Fiasco

October 31st 11.05 PM

Today was. . .eventful. I haven't written for so long because each day was so excruciating that to write it all down would have killed me. I make a point never to be in a good mood, but this year there is absolutely no risk of that, with Potter here as an exact replica of his father and McGonagall being all stroppy with me ever since I stunned her. If we weren't both mature, sensible adults, I'm quite sure we would be hurling Dungbombs at each other in between classes . . .Well, actually, to be honest, we are. I haven't been able to hit her yet and she's never even come close to me, but it's been driving Filch crazy. He thinks the students are conspiring against him. I don't think he sleeps. Just the night before last, I was stalking around the castle looking for students out of bed when he started chasing me with a mop. He looked sensationally dotty, with his eyes nearly popping out and his hair sticking up in all sorts of odd ways, brandishing a dirty old mop like it was a spear. I was swatted seven times before he noticed that he was attacking a professor. And then he didn't even apologize, he just sort of slumped against the wall and fell asleep, which was fortunate as it didn't give him time to notice that my pockets and socks were bulging with Dungbombs, in case I ran into McGonagall. Poor man. I would feel sorry for him if I didn't have a reputation to uphold.

But anyway, about today. Everything was averagely unpleasant until the feast. I was taking a sip of pumpkin juice, feeling rather elated that Quirrel had chosen not to show up and irritate me, when the doors to the Great Hall slammed open. Flitwick, who is very excitable, was so startled that he leapt into my lap, somehow managing to knock my hand so that the entire glass of pumpkin juice was dumped right over my head. So not only was I sticky and wet, but I also had my male, elderly colleague in my lap. The whole thing was sensationally awkward for the both of us. I pretended to be paying attention to the fool Quirrel was making of himself while Flitwick removed himself with a lot of embarrassed mumblings. Yes, it was Quirrel who had banged the doors. He flew in looking dramatically terrified; acting as if anyone actually cared that something had scared him. He ran too fast, however, and he careened into the Staff Table before he could stop, making all our drinks spill all over the place. Or mine would have spilled if it hadn't been dripping down my robes already.

Anyway, then he said, "Troll—in the dungeons—thought you ought to know." Then he sank to the floor in a faint. It's not very reassuring when the school's Defense teacher goes fainting all over the place at the first hint of danger. I stopped only to mention that to Dumbledore before springing into action.

I heard Flitwick say, "A troll? Why—and how—did a troll get in?"

Well, I knew exactly why. Dumbledore. It was the troll he had set to guard his fuzzy socks. The fuzzy socks that I had stolen. Dumbledore had sent the thing out when he knew we were all at the feast. He sent it to the dungeons, but I was too clever for him. As far as I knew, the socks were still on the third floor with Fluffy. Still, while trolls are dumb, they have a very keen sense of smell. . .and Dumbledore's socks are quite easy to smell, I promise you. So while Dumbledore was calming everyone down, I slipped out the side door. I walked briskly to the third floor, worried about "Fluffy" and what I would do if the troll had beaten me to the socks. I knew that I would not set my hostages free until I got the Defense Against the Dark Arts job, but I could hardly fight a troll and a mutated dog at the same time. Well it turns out that I didn't need to worry about the troll. The dog was too much for me to handle anyway.

The door was closed and the troll was nowhere in sight. I unlocked the door and entered—slowly and cautiously. Fluffy was curled up over the trap door and I could see the pile of socks in the corner. One of Fluffy's heads rose up and eyed me. I paused, but he/she/it didn't make a move, so I crept along, pressed against the wall towards the socks. Fluffy began to growl then, so I burst into song.

"And IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-ee-IIIIIIIIIIIII will always love you-oooooooooooooooooo. And III—"

That if anything made Fluffy lose it, I am ashamed to admit. She leapt up and snapped at me, but I dodged her, grabbed some socks, and ran for the door, shooting random spells as I went. Still, it was doomed. She has three mouths. Three. So just as my hand was on the door handle, she bit me pretty badly on the leg. I'll probably have the scars for the rest of my life.

Now would also be a good time to explain why I would burst into song in the heat of battle. You see, Hagrid is the one who takes care of Fluffy and he should really be the only one who knows how to calm her, but, you see, Hagrid is also very fond of drink. Whenever he gets drunk (which is not seldom, mind you) he tells at least five people how to tame Fluffy. I don't know why he does it. He just does. So every once in a while he'll come and bang down the dungeon door, all tipsy and smelling of mead.

"Severus," he says, "I have a three headed dog. Ever seen one o' those? Aren't you interested to know how to tame 'em?"

"No," I will usually reply good-naturedly. But he always says anyway. Sometimes I wonder what the point of me ever talking is. No one ever bothers listening no matter how brilliant I am.

"Well, you just play a bit o' music and he falls right to sleep, that's all you does!" And then he slaps me on the back (which feels a bit like getting hit by a train only more so) and toddles off, weaving about and crashing into things and such, off to find the next person to tell. It's a strange habit, I admit, but I thought it would come in handy. Apparently I was wrong.

I think I need to work on my singing.

So anyway, I had just run out the door with five pairs of socks in my hand and blood running down my leg when Quirrel crashed into me. I don't know what his problem is with walking like a normal person. He went into a sort of nervous spasm. He's another fellow who's rather too excitable for his own good.

"Severus!" he squeaked, and then cleared his throat and then said in a normal octave, "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same of you, Quirrel. I suppose you're running away from the troll? Not a very good quality in a Defense teacher, don't you think?"

Well by that time he had almost recovered himself so he said, "Not at all, I was looking for the thing, s-same as you, I assume."

"Ri—right," I said, thankful he had made an excuse for me. I was in no state to think one up for myself. He was eying the socks so I quickly shoved them in the mouth of nearby gargoyle (which then spat them right back at me, cursing and carrying on) and said, "Those students, always leaving their things around. . .losing their socks all over the place. You know."

He very clearly didn't know, but he didn't seem to mind so we set off to look for that blasted troll that caused all the trouble in the first place (the gargoyle followed us andI let it snap at Quirrel's heels a few times before I stunned it for him. The stupid man is useless even against an ugly piece of stone). We then ran into McGonagall, who was looking very disheveled with her hair flying about and all, pretending that she actually cared for the students' safety. She said she had heard screams from the girl's bathroom, and Quirrel said that he had thought so too, though I personally believe that Quirrel was just saying that so he could get the chance to go into a girl's bathroom, as he had been with me all the time and never mentioned any screams. Well, anyway, then we heard this great thud from the bathroom's direction so we began to run. Or rather McGonagall began to run and we had to follow so that we could prove we were good teachers too. My run was more of a wincing limp/pirouette because of my injury. I'm rather good at handling pain, but the bite was deep and messy.

When we arrived at the bathroom (panting like a bunch of old hippos—really, the school should offer some sort of fitness program so we teachers don't have to embarrass ourselves like that whenever there's an emergency), the troll was already knocked out and laying on the ground, if you'll believe it. Quirrel almost pissed his pants of fright and he ran over to sit on a toilet just in case. He was pretending that he just needed to sit down out of shock, but I wasn't fooled. But then we turn, and guess who is standing there. You will never guess. It is too much of an outrage to ever guess. Even when I tell you his name you will still not be able to guess, it is so shockingly infuriating. Harry Potter. I gaped for only a second. I was going to start screaming, but McGonagall beat me to it, which was rather lucky as I'm quite sure what was about to come out of mouth was not exactly. . .child friendly.

The children stammered for a while (he was with his two little friends, a smarty pants and a ginger-nob. I haven't bothered to learn their names yet. . .and after tonight I doubt I ever will, just to spite them). Finally the smarty-pants confessed that she went looking for the troll and the two boys came to save her. Potter's ego almost hit the ceiling when she said that, but I think I was the only one who noticed. I could see it sort of growing and bulging until it suffocated everything around it, but when I mentioned that to McGonagall later she looked at me as if I was quite mad and then hurled a rock at me.

The worst part about it all, though, was that for most of smarty-pant's confession, Potter, I am quite certain, was ogling my feet. McGonagall has been spreading rumors about them even to the children! I very pointedly whipped my robes in front of them and sneered at him. Having sexy feet is such a burden. . .Though, now that I think of it, it's quite possible that Potter was only noticing the blood running down my leg. . .but I doubt it.

The end result was that Gryffindor was awarded five points. I'm pretty sure that McGonagall only did so few points so that I wouldn't explode. She was sort of eyeing me nervously the entire time; I think I must have looked exceptionally sour. Then after the students left, I yelled:

"Last one out has to clean up the troll!" and McGonagall and I ran like rhinoceroses, pushing and shoving and grunting out the door while Quirrel blinked stupidly at us. I don't know how he ever managed to get it out and I'm not bothering to ask. He might start to think I am actually interested in his life, which would be an irreversible tragedy.

I will finish with these closing words:

I hate Harry Potter.

A/N—Sorry it's been so long. My life has not been very conducive to writing funny fanfics lately. I just got through a sort of messy break up and I had the flu and now I am on crutches (I may be the only person in the world who has gotten an injury from playing ping-pong). I know this chapter was not my best. But for even getting it up this soon you have to thank Jonathan Matthews, who left about the nicest review an author could ever hope to get. He inspired me to keep going. So thanks, JM (and all the reviewers, really. It makes my day every time to know I made you laugh even a little). Also, I committed a sort of sin this chapter. I mixed the movie and book worlds. I know that Harry doesn't notice Snape's leg until later on (in the book), but I just thought it was too funny that Snape would think Harry was interested in his feet. . .so sorry and all that. Hope you can forgive me. Review!


	7. Snapey Goes Bananas

November 3rd 9.17 PM

The year has finally gotten into the swing of things and I am bogged down by all this work. Grading papers and such. Sometimes I forget why I took this job, but then I remember that I love. . .or at least I enjoy. . .well, I have an inclination for. . .it is necessary that. . .well, nevermind. No, I really have no good reason at all to remain here. I hate children, I hate colleagues of any kind, I hate castles, I hate breath mints, I hate potions, I hate education, and I especially hate tapestries. I do love the color black, though. That is something. . .I'm not quite sure where that fits in, but I'm sure I'll find its pertinence eventually.

But moving on to the events of today: I confiscated three quills this morning. The students had the nerve to protest. They said:

"But professor, we're merely taking notes!"

"How am I supposed to finish this assignment without a quill?"

"Quills are allowed, you know!"

"Yeah, we need them, I'm sure you understand." Blahblahblah. Excuses excuses. Those impertinent little fools. If I ever see them with quills again I'll give them all a years worth of detention. Dangerous weapons, quills. Who was it that said the pen is mightier than the sword? No matter. It's very true.

So after that success I moved on to hats. I crept up behind and snatched hats off of those foolish enough to wear them. It was quite amusing. I would hide it behind my back very quickly and they would whip around and see me there. Not one had the nerve to accuse their professor of stealing a hat, so they all blamed their friends, whom I would then give detention for stealing. Quite an entertaining game, I must say, and all of my own invention. A professor must have _some_ educational way to amuse himself.

Unfortunately, I was on my sixth hat when a Hufflepuff named Billia Shee said, in one of those loud and obnoxious voices, "Professor Snape, why did you take his hat?" Just as she said that, the boy whose hat I'd stolen looked up at me, with the hat still in my hand. The surrounding group of students turned to stare, as if professors stealing student's hats was something unusual and interesting.

Luckily, I had the presence of mind to get out of the situation. I bore down on the boy and said, "How dare you wear a hat in this school?"

"But Professor—" he (Dean Thomas, a thoroughly stupid First Year Gryffindor) said.

"It's the dress code, Professor!" said his friend, "They _make_ us buy them before term starts! Besides, you're wearing one, too."

I ignored her and went on, "Outright promiscuity! Indecency! Direct and intentional disobedience! I don't think you can even comprehend the gravity of your situation—"

"It's a hat Professor!" Thomas said, "There's nothing promiscuous about it. I don't know what you're—"

Unfortunately, at that moment five hats fell out of my sleeves with a great thump onto the floor. Everyone just stared at me. I stared back. It could have gone on forever, I tell you. Just staring, staring. . .staring. . .staring. . .About a half an hour later I moved to sweep dignifiedly out of the hall when the dungbombs I had been saving for McGonagall fell out of my socks and bounced around the students feet. I continued to glare around at them severely as I crawled around the floor and tucked every last dungbomb back into my socks. No point in just leaving them there. The students began to gape at each other. I heard one say, "Is this really happening?" And the other replied, "Highly unlikely."

I then stood up, still with the utmost dignity and severity, took a sweeping bow, turned on my heels, and ran. Sadly, just before I turned the corner my hat flew off and the three peaches and a banana that I had been saving tumbled out. I retrieved my hat, trying to look casual, but I glanced back and there was still a gaggle of students, looking like the possessed, just sort of ogling me. As if they didn't have lives of their own, which, now that I think of it, is probably true.

That fiasco put me in a rather foul mood, so I limped around the castle looking for guilty faces when, wouldn't you know it, I spotted three simpering little Gryffindors. . .well they weren't simpering, really. It's just the word simpering has this wonderful negative ring to it; I can hardly resist using it now and again. But in any case, I marched right up to those foul creatures (because it was Potter, Weasley, and Granger, of course) and confiscated Potter's library book. It was _Quidditch Through the Ages. _Just because he's going to be Seeking at that stupid game tomorrow doesn't mean he can just waltz around with any old Quidditch book. The nerve.

Even worse, during class today he did not for one moment look away from my feet. The little pervert. I am very seldom creeped out, but his obsession with them is getting to be a little much for my nerves. I think I have figured out a way to walk without letting my shoes poke out from under my robes, but I'll have to wait until my limp goes away to try it out.

Oh yes, and I had to meet Harry one final time before the day was out. He decided to spy on the Staff Room. Filch and I were attempting to change my bandages (and failing, but I don't want to go to Madam Pomfrey until it has been confirmed by at least three sources that she is not madly in love with me), when I saw these little eyes peeping through the door looking at my feet. I dropped my robes quickly. He tried to shut the door when he saw me.

"POTTER!" I yelled, though I didn't actually know it was him yet. I just figured that first of all he is the only student I know who is obsessed with my feet and secondly, it is a safe bet that the only nosy idiot who would go poking around the teachers lounge and then have the ability to get caught would be descended from James Potter. Turns out I was right. He tried to mumble some excuse or something, but I couldn't hear because I was too busy yelling, "GET OUT! _OOOOOUT!_"

He's just lucky I was in a good mood, orI wouldn't have spoken so nicely to him. It took two and a half hours, three tranquilizers and a sleeping pill to calm me down after that, but luckily Filch keeps these things handy just in case.

Did I mention I am writing this in a locked room with padded walls? Filch seemed to think it would be best...


	8. Compsure Quidditch

Saturday, November 4th 6.45 PM

Big, important things happened today in the world of Hogwarts, but really quickly I must get the most awkward moment of my life off my chest. I was in a rather foul mood (and by rather I mean INSANELY), the cause of which I will explain later, so I was stalking about the castle (which involves a quick, angry walk and the occasional prance-and-leap combo plus imposing eyebrows) when I stalked right into a suit of armor. It promptly picked me up over its head, spun me in a circle, and threw me into a nearby classroom. This, believe it or not, was not the embarrassing part. That came when I stood up, straightened myself out, and turned around. And there was McGonagall. In a pale pink leotard. Doing a headstand.

"Oh! Excuse me..." she said, but she stayed upside down, with an almost serene expression on her face.

I went into shock. I swear to you. I didn't know what to do, which is just great because I _always_ know what to do. Always. Until now. At worst I could have at least burst out laughing. Jesus Jiminy Christ, the old bag's taken up gymnastics and I can't even come up with a chuckle. I just gaped for a second, but she couldn't see me because she had already clsoed her eyes in a sort of headstand-trance.

"Ah..." I stuttered (and under normal circumstances it is impossible to stutter over the word "Ah").

More silence.

"I--hmm. Ah...muck," I said slowly, so she could understand me, "Hem! That's right there, well...yes. Boom."

She then opened her eyes very slowly and looked at me--but not at my face. At my feet. Yes, the feet thing again. And yet I still couldn't do anything. I believe I said, "Cah!" rather loudly and then tripped over what I would love to say was my own foot, but in all honesty was absolutely nothing. I wasn't even walking. How do you trip when you aren't moving? Pure talent, I suppose.

So I said to myself in my head, "Composure, Severus, composure. Composure, composure, composure."

It almost worked, too. I turned to her, stuck my nose up, and said, "Com-pose-_ure._" And walked out.

But just before the door shut, she called, "Severus!"

I stuck my head back in. I should have just run. Why didn't I just run?

"You have toilet paper on your shoe."

Then I ran, but only until the next hallway where I checked my shoe and, sure enough, this was not just toilet paper, this was an entire roll. It had been trailing me along all day apparently, because as I looked around I saw it running down the hall and turing corners and crisscrossing everywhere. I shook it off (which took a full ten minutes) and stormed back to my dungeon. No more stalking for me.

Oh, right. Well today was the first Quidditch game--and of course it just had to be Slytherin versus Gryffindor. You see, normally I despise sports and those who play them, but I make a special point about Slytherin Quidditch. We have a name to uphold that goes much farther than Quidditch, but at the same time includes it, and so of course we'd better win if Dumbledore doesn't want me in conniptions for eternity. So I always show up to the game against my deeper wishes. I knew this game would be particularly painful because Potter was playing--as Seeker. I had no idea how bad it would really be, but I prepared something to amuse myself just in case. I charmed a box to throw peanuts at him and set it in the stands the night before (after Filch let me out when I threatened to stop brewing him that excellent face cleanser I invented).

It worked the first part of the game (though I'm not sure he noticed--thick as he is. Next time I'll try giraffes and see if that perks him up a bit.). But then the funniest thing happened. I was looking through my binoculars (to see if the peanuts were hitting--like _I_ would honestly follow the plays of a Quidditch game) and I noticed that all the peanuts that were already in the air seemed to be having siezures. They were all whizzing around and lurching and looping. Along with everything else in that area--including Harry.

I looked around me and no one else seemed to be noticing. I knew what curse it was, I could tell from the way the peanuts were moving and how it targeted a whole area. So then, I am ashamed to admit, I began to chant the counter curse. I don't really know why I did it, but I maintain that it was to save the peanuts. Also, I could see Quirrel in the row above me trying to counter it as well, and failing miserably. With every word he said, Harry seemed to lurch even more. That incompetent mess of an ugly purple turban. I have no idea how he got that job, but I have a pretty good idea of how he'll lose it. One day he'll be too scared and quivery to leave his bed and Dumbledore will have to fire him and make ME the Defense teacher, and make ME Deputy Headmistress, and make ME King of the World!...

I mentioned this offhandedly to Dumbledore sometime before I made a fool of myself in front of McGonagall. He was actually the root of all my angry stalking.

"Dumbledore!" I said as I barged into his office. Well actually I was hiding in his cabinet, sitting in his Pensieve (hoping that sitting there wouldn't forever give him a memory of my rear), and I jumped out at him at the exact moment when I knew he was just relaxing in his chair taking a sip of tea (which we all know is actually gin in a teacup). He spluttered it all over the place and made quite a scene. He's excellent at calling up amusing profanities at the spur of the moment. Unfortunately he also has very good reflexes, so while he spluttered and carried on, he managed to put me in a killer body bind.

"What do you WANT Severus?" he spat (literally).

"Mm-hmmhmm. Mmm mhhmmm hmm hmmummhmm. Frmmummhmm--" He took me out of the body bind, "I saved Potter and Quirrel couldn't even do it and why haven't you fired him?"

"Ahhh, Seeeveeerrrrrrussss..." he has this habit of elongating words at only the most annoying times possible, "Whhhhy do you thinnnk you saaaved Hhhharrrry?"

"Peanuts!" I screamed, "And don't you try to make anything else out of it!--"

"Ahhhh yeeessss---"

"And would you cut that out?"

"Sorry."

"That's better. I didn't come here to listen to your rubbish. I came here to prove a point." And believe it or not, he actually listened. Probably because he had never heard me make that much sense before, "Today at the Quidditch game, both Quirrel and I were trying to save Harry, but when _I _did it the broom steadied and when _he_ did it, the broom went nuts. If he can't even defend a single student then why does he get that job when I, being perfectly competent, have never been allowed it?"

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhh--"

"Stop it!" I squeaked.

"Oh, right, sorry." He cleared his throat, "Ah, Severus, perhaps there was only one of you who was trying to save the boy..."

"I _was_ trying to save him Professor! Maybe I don't like him, but there are times that you have to push aside grudges if you want the peanuts to fly and no one to die--Hey! That rhymes!" I believe I giggled, but I prefer not to think about it. You see, I can handle many things, but alcohol is not one of them and I can't deny that I had visited Trelawney's "secret" stash before I went to the Headmaster.

But anyway, Dumbledore said, "Yes, you did save Harry, but did Quirrel?"

"No! That's what I'm trying to _tell_ you! He's useless!"

"Useless to who?"

"What?"

"Maybe he is being use_ful_ to someone else."

"How?"

"By being incompetent."

"Where?"

"Here!"

"When?"

"At the game!"

"WHY?"

"I don't know!"

"_WHO?_"

"QUIRREL!"

And then silence. I had a lot to think about.

"Headmaster?" I said about a minute later.

"Yes?"

"I still don't get it."

"Ahhhhhh, well. Perhaps this is something I'll have to let you figure out on you own," he said. I hate it when he does that. So cryptic, and who does it help? No one. All this self-discovery stuff is so overrated. Why don't you tell me the ending before it happens so I don't have to be so surprised that I wet myself?

"But why can't you--" I began, but was cut off when the trapdoor beneath me opened and I fell eleven stories down to my dungeon. Ever since Dumbledore discovered that his rooms are right above mine, he's been getting enourmous enjoyment out of listening to my screams. I think it makes him feel like he has a purpose in life (which he doesn't).

So that's when I changed my robes and went out stalking. I had to change my robes because someone set me on fire during the Quidditch game. And even then I was still able to save Potter. I was almost at the end of the incantation when I smelled the smoke, so I finished quickly and then stamped it out, but not quickly enough to save my robes.

It really was an eventful day.

I refuse to talk about the end of the Quidditch game lest I start blaming myself for how it turned out. If anyone ever finds out that I helped the boy who won the game, I'll never hear the end of it! The students will lynch me! I'll be and outcast for life! I'll never be able to come back to this school ever again...

Actually, none of those things are sounding very bad at this moment.


	9. Hormonal Horrors

Wednesday, November 16th 4.52 PM

I make a point of never getting personal with my students. If I know anything about them, it is their names and maybe their parents. If they are in Slytherin, I may greet them in the hall, and if they are not, I religiously ignore them. I have never willingly started a conversation nor have I hinted that I would ever want one started...And yet it seems we have entered an alternate universe because suddenly I am the number one confidante of the little brats.

Yesterday, Carlin Emery, a fifth-year Gryffindor girl came to me after class.

"Professor, I'm so confused--" she began.

"If you had paid any attention at all during my lesson then perhaps you would--"

"Adrian Pucey likes me. I _know_ he does. And I think I like him too, but you see I'm not really sure what to do because my friend Genesis--you know Genesis--well, she likes him too. Only I've liked him longer, but she's my best friend in the whole world and so I just can't--I don't--I don't know what to do!"

I would have interjected sooner, but I believe I went into shock. I realized my mouth was hanging open, soI quickly closed it, sneered, and said:

"Even if I had any interest at all in this drivel, I wouldn't be able to help you." I thought it was blunt and to-the-point.

"Well, it's good to know that at least you can try, Professor," she said, and continued, "Because really it's the hardest thing in the world."

The hardest thing in the world! Can she honestly believe that? I tried to show her how shallow she was, but ended up saying, "If your problems were the hardest, then I'd be a happy place right now!" I know it made no sense, but any fool would have known what I meant.

She paused, then said tentatively, "Well, I'm glad you're happy." She seemed to think for a second and then went on, "And I know it's a little silly, but I think I'm in love with him."

"I'm going to have to ask you to--"

"Have you ever been in love, Professor?"

"--leave."

"Have you? Been in love?" she persisted. Her great big brown eyes kept opening wider and wider as she looked at me, earnestly and irritatingly.

"For God's sake, leave this instant. I am not interested in discussing any topic with you, not to mention one so personal--and therefore thoroughly boring--as _love_." I stalked into my office (I know I swore not to stalk anymore, but sometimes I can't help it), but she followed me in before I could close the door.

"I shouldn't have asked such a personal question and I'm sorry," she said, "But what should I do?"

"GET OUT!" I yelled, waving my arms, "OUT OUT OUT!"

"He's so nice, but I guess he isn't worth a friendship where--"

"OOOOUT! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO--"

"And I can't really imagine it working out, either--"

"LEAVE ME AT ONCE OR YOU SHALL HAVE DETENTION FOR A WEEK!"

"He snorts a little when he laughs," she giggled, "And when he's thinking I can always tell because he bites his lip and pulls at his hair. He's been thinking a lot lately--"

"_DETENTION!_" I roared, "_DETENTION FOR A MONTH! FOR THE LAST TIME, I'M NOT INTERESTED IN TEENAGE HORMONES!_"

That snapped her out of it, at least a little. But in truth nothing can penetrate a Gryffindor skull.

"Okay, Professor. I'm sorry Professor. I'll come by tomorrow at eight for my first detention. Oh--and thanks for listening." And before I even realized that she had set the time and date for her own detention, she was gone, taking her big brown eyes with her.

Well, thinking that this was merely an isolated incident, I put my head between my knees and thanked God it was over. I may have passed out after that. Death I can face, pain I can handle, but teenage romance--that and bubblegum flavored ice cream--can put me off food for days. And I'm not much for Filch's singing voice either. Or smiling.

I know very well that I live in a school and therefore must, now and again, encounter holding hands, kissing, and the like. Actually, one of my very favorite pastimes is hiding behind bushes on lovely spring afternoons, when you can almost see the hormones flitting about in their horrible useless sort of way…I have it down to a science, you see:

Step One-- Leap out suddenly upon the unsuspecting couple.

Step Two-- Say some variation of "Well, well, well, isn't this romantic?"

Step Three-- Watch gleefully as they jump apart looking like guilty house elves--and often blush the color of my Elmo nightdress

Step Four--Savor the awkward silence. Taste, live, _breathe_ it!

Step Five-- "20 points from (insert House(s) here) for making me lose my lunch."

Step Six-- Prowl away merrily, feeling as if I have a purpose in life...

Ah, I can't wait for spring...

Right, but anyhow, the Carlin fiasco was yesterday. Then today at lunch there was a knock on my door. I yelled, "One moment!" and quickly put away my bubbles (you know, the little ones you blow through a bubble wand), "Come in!"

Adrian Pucey entered. At first I had absolutely no recollection that in front of me was the object of Carlin's affections. But my happy forgetfulness was soon robbed when he said:

"Professor, I am in love."

Then I committed the hugest error of my career. I hesitated.

I knew at the time that I shouldn't have, but you see Pucey is a Slytherin and, though not very bright, he's a damn good Quidditch player and…well, I just felt for a moment that he may have needed my help.

Naturally that moment did not last long.

He took advantage of my hesitation to continue his speech (for a speech it became). I tuned most of it out, for I was in a sort of daze. One of my very few flaws is that I cannot handle emotional situations.

I vaguely remember him going on about Carlin, her smile and eyes. If I remember correctly, the "butterflies of his soul" came up a few times as well as the words "Love distills desire upon the eyes, love brings bewitching grace into the heart," which I never plan to hear again, not even if my life depends on it.

At the end of his lengthy discourse I said curtly, "I told her yesterday, and I am telling you today. I am nO-ot--(my voice cracked with perfectly horrendous timing. I pretended it didn't happen)--going to put up with this. Not even with students from my own house. If I listen to too much more of your teenage prattle, I will expire at the age of twenty-three."

"H--how old are you now, Professor?"

"Thirty-one," I said, glaring at him in a gentle and soothing manner, "So you see how serious it is."

His pride had been hurt a bit, I could tell. My heart danced (literally) with joy as he turned to leave.

But no, Fate _hates _me, so he looked back around, hopefully, pathetically.

"Carlin talked with you as well? What did she say?"

"She talked _at _me." And I said the next part very angrily, bearing down on him, hoping to scare him off, "She is madly in love with you, but her loyalty to Genesis is stopping her!"

To my mortification, his whole face lit up like some demented lamp and he hugged me. _Hugged_ me!

All I could do was splutter helplessly at him, and you can hardly blame me.

He let me go eventually, smiling like a loon. And, spouting out a few more professions of love (hopefully not aimed at me), he left me in blissful, traumatized silence.

He _hugged_ me. A student. Touched me.

I huddled under my desk for over an hour.

When I again regained the courage to venture outside my office, I ran into McGonagall. And when I say ran, I mean she literally _ran_ into me. I don't know what she thinks she's doing sprinting all over the place, and I will assume it was just because she was helplessly attracted to me and went a little overboard. Though really I don't think I'll assume that at all, seeing as the very thought of it made me die, just a little, on the inside. I'm really a very sensitive person in some ways, and the idea of Minerva McGonagall being attracted to anything is very offensive to my nerves--mind--_being_, even. I hope I am never forced to think on it again.

Anyhow, once we righted ourselves and healed minor injuries, I tried to make her understand how violated and truly upset I felt.

"Minerva," I began, "Adrian Pucey spoke words of love to me, encroached upon my personal space, and then touched me inappropriately."

She stared at me calmly, turned calmly around, and walked calmly (and quickly) away.

When she turned the corner, I jumped as these preposterously shrill hoots and snorts echoed down the corridors, coming from the hall that she had just turned into. I ran to her aid, figuring she had been attacked by a herd of baboons (students). But no. The old opossum was making the whole racket all by herself. Sprawled across the entire floor, flailing like an untrained hippopotamus--she was laughing. Laughing! At my heartfelt confession, too!

I turned her into a big thorny lizard.

And walked away, never looking back (well, in truth I looked back once, but I prefer not to think about it, seeing as the lizard was now on its back, still flailing and laughing like a...like a...there isn't even a comparison, is there?).


End file.
